Sick of transport, I'm the type to instantly become green if I have to read if only as an indication or a map in a car. The bus did not even mention. And yet this week, the good music flowing freely in my iPod, and I read in 22, 2, 4 or 7, the short bus whoever will take me from my home office, and office in my home sweet home.
Monday, my hands were attracted to a paperback book at the library, I do not know why, but I am far from complain. I was behind you , Nicolas Fargues, is very dense, incisive, thought, and devours raw. The back cover is inspiring:
"It's in his thirties that life hit me in the figure.J 'then I stopped to take me to the king of the world and I became an adult as the others, who does what he can with what it is. I waited for her thirties no longer have to wonder what it would look like, suffering and worry, about thirty to get me, like everyone else in search of happiness. What happened? I have not experienced war or the loss of a loved one or serious illness, nothing. Nothing but a banal story of separation and meeting. "
And it seems that to read on the bus, clinging to a pole standing or sitting comfortably on the bottom row, gives even more flavor. I dive, I lean my head on my book, I read a few sentences, a few paragraphs, a passage makes me smile so he types in the mile. Suddenly I looked up, I look around me, wildlife bus in all its splendor, staring into space for the most part, lost in their thoughts but required time to travel to be glued to strangers who too often stinks when they do not smell the perfume cheap, or take too much space and you dripping wet with their umbrellas. I quickly plunged back and forget the blues room. Even if my journey takes only 20 minutes, the bubble changes everything, and I come down with a smile. For a bit, I would scream "Thank you" to the driver since the back door.
I hesitate to read other than the bus, I want my memories are colored by reading this atmosphere. But the urge to move is too strong. Hey, maybe I'll go for a walk by bus this weekend, just to finish it.
"I try to record as much detail as possible, knowing already that later when everything is reduced to a powerful memory of my senses, I would be remiss not to have tasted more consciously at the time. But it is impossible to consciously try to happiness. Beneath its banal, with its noise and imperfections, without the filter of memory trim, the reality is you always speed. At the time, it is mathematical, you can just feel vaguely that something is going well, but you're too busy living in the same time to taste really. Because you've noticed that happiness is always a memory, never in the moment, eh? (...) That, lost time, time short, the impossible equation of time passing and we would like to retain. "
